


What color was the mockingbird?

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Crack, Episode Related, Fic, Gen, Ghosts, Pre-Threesome, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-13
Updated: 2010-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:07:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag for 2.09.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What color was the mockingbird?

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 2.09. (Spoilers for 2.10 in the comments.) Thanks to dragonfly for read-through. <3

Neal woke up, his heart racing. The clock on the nightstand said 2:37 in square red digits that provided the only illumination in Peter and Elizabeth's guest room. Neal wiped the sweat from his face with his pajama sleeve, then he reached across and tugged at a corner of the curtain so a stripe of moonlight fell across the carpet. The nightmares were lessening, but they still left him shaken. Kate, Mozzie—

"I saw a mockingbird in the park," said a faint familiar voice from the foot of the bed.

Neal sat bolt upright. "Mozzie?"

He must still be dreaming. He pinched himself.

"So, you moved in with the Suits," said a pale shape in the gloom. It didn't look like Mozzie—more like a blob of misplaced moonlight hovering above the bedclothes. "A curious move. A more paranoid man might suspect a conspiracy designed to exactly this end."

Neal had to be dreaming. "Moz, you're dead."

"Dead in _body_ ," corrected the blob. It shimmered for a moment, then resolved like a photograph developing, and there was Mozzie, cherubic and bespectacled, blinking at him and making no indentation on the mattress whatsoever. The strap of his messenger bag hung loosely from his shoulder. "It turns out there are other options for the spirit, though you wouldn't believe the hoops I had to jump through. Seriously, you thought the FBI was bureaucratic."

"Moz." Neal pinched himself again, harder. "Ow. What are you doing here?"

"Keeping an eye on you, apparently," said Mozzie cheerily. "Someone has to. What are _you_ doing here?"

"After you—After we found you, Peter decided I was a target, and I'm pretty sure he is too, so we agreed to keep an eye on each other. And Elizabeth wouldn't move into a safe house, so—" Neal leaned forward and arranged his pillows so he could sit more comfortably. "Are you okay?"

"I'm dead," said Mozzie. "And you didn't ask what color the mockingbird was."

"You know what I mean. Other than being dead. You're not—" Neal couldn't bring himself to say it.

As usual, Mozzie had no such problem. "Turns out Hell was invented by religious leaders to scare everyone into seeking redemption. Big surprise. No such place, unless the afterlife equivalent of the DMV counts. Come to think of it—I may have been to Hell and back." He beamed proudly for a moment, then sobered. "I really don't recommend it, especially if you don't have current valid ID."

"Did you have something you needed to tell me?" Neal was starting to shiver. His pajamas were still clammy from the nightmare, and the presence of his dead best friend wasn't helping any. "Is that why you came back? Some kind of closure?"

But Mozzie had wandered—or floated—across the room and was peering at his reflection in the mirror. "I don't see why my incorporeal form has to be like this. It's not like I _never_ had hair!"

"Sorry, man," said Neal, trying for sympathy, but it was hard to feel anything through the— Oh. Guilt. "I mean, I'm really sorry. About everything. I should never have dragged you into this."

"Oh, please." Mozzie waved an airy hand in his direction. "As if I'd let you get mixed up in an actual conspiracy without my having your back. Do you know how validating it was to realize in my last moments that a life-time of paranoia had actually been justified? It was like finding out that the pirate map you made up as a kid, for a game, led to actual sixteenth-century doubloons."

Neal stared at him.

"Except more painful," admitted Mozzie, "but hey, it's done. Move on. The important thing now is that you catch the guy before he does any more damage, and there's only one way to do that."

Neal leaned forward. "Which is?"

Mozzie turned away from the mirror and grinned at Neal. "Remember the key?"

"What key?" Neal frowned. "The music box key, with the cherub? What about it?"

Mozzie began to flicker and fade. "The music box isn't the only thing it opens," he said. "The ring, the key, the box—You know, Freud would have had a field day with the symbolism of this whole thing."

"Well, actually—" Neal snapped his mouth shut. But Mozzie was dead, and even if he wasn't, he'd always been utterly reliable when it came to keeping secrets. Neal dropped his gaze. "I've been thinking about that too."

"Neal, I'm dead," said Mozzie, "and even if I weren't, you're not really my type. No offence. I just prefer people capable of sincere self-deprecation. It's a thing."

"I didn't mean _you_ ," said Neal. "I just thought you should know. Since we're—we were—best friends."

"Great. I scythe my way through a veritable forest of other-worldly red tape to get back here just so you can tell me what? You have a thing for the Suit? Like that wasn't obvious to anyone with half a brain cell. Are you sleeping together yet? Probably not or you'd be in there, not here, unless Mrs. Suit—"

"Moz," Neal interrupted desperately. God help him if Mozzie's voice carried through the wall. Elizabeth was a light sleeper. "Moz! It's not like that. They don't—Never mind. Forget that, what matters is—" Neal swallowed his irritation. Everyone else Neal knew, even Peter, required careful handling. Mozzie was the only person in the world he could completely relax around, the only one he didn't have to con. "I missed you."

Mozzie returned to the foot of the bed, perched there and tilted his head like a bird. "What's to miss? I'm right here."

"Yeah, but—" Neal felt his eyes widen. "You mean you're staying?"

"Unless you have a better idea," said Mozzie.

"No," said Neal hastily. "No, that's—that's good."

"It's not creeping you out?" Mozzie adjusted the strap of his bag, and Neal wondered what was in there, whether he should be concerned.

He hid that thought behind a reassuring smile. "Of course not. You and me—it's like old times. Tell me about the key."

Mozzie sat up straighter. "Why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?" Neal tried to lose the grin, but his face refused to cooperate.

Mozzie pointed at him accusingly. "You're conning me. That's your con smile. You are creeped out."

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but the truth slipped out. "You're visiting me from beyond the grave, Moz. Excuse me if it takes a little getting used to." He sighed and lowered his voice. "Give me some time, okay?"

"Fine, fine." Mozzie slumped a little, relaxing. "Whatever. Got any sodium bicarbonate?"

"What?" Neal nearly pinched himself again. "What's that got to do with the music box?"

"Nothing." Mozzie grimaced. "I have tingling in my extremities."

Neal stared at him, but that was all the explanation that seemed to be forthcoming, and the chances of coaxing information out of Mozzie while he was distracted would have been approximately zero even if he hadn't been fading. "Um, sure. Probably." Neal got up and pulled on his robe. "Come on. There'll be some in the kitchen."

They went downstairs, and Neal rifled around in the pantry until he found the baking soda. "Got it," he said. "Now what? Do you eat it?"

Mozzie was studying the postcards and notes stuck to the fridge. "Ha! Very funny. Do I look like I have a functioning digestive tract to you?" He shook his head. "Just—I don't know, dissolve it in water and I'll dip my hands in."

"And your feet?" Neal pulled a face and got out a bowl. "Okay, but I don't want to have to explain this to Elizabeth or—"

Satchmo trotted into the room, interrupting him, and stopped in his tracks. The dog's hackles rose, his ears went back, and he bared his teeth at Mozzie and growled.

"Quiet, boy! Good Satchmo. I've got this. Shhhh," said Neal. He looked up at Mozzie. "He can see you."

"Obviously." Mozzie had climbed onto the counter and pulled his feet up, and was glaring down at Satchmo, who started barking. "And he's making enough noise to wake the dead. Figuratively speaking. Can't you muzzle him or something?"

"With what?" asked Neal, and then Elizabeth stuck her head through the doorway, and Mozzie vanished.

"Neal?" Elizabeth squinted against the kitchen light. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot, and she looked sleepy and gorgeous. "Is everything okay? Satchmo, hush!"

Satchmo quieted, and Neal put the baking soda behind the fruit bowl, out of her line of sight.

"Yeah, it's fine. Nothing to see here." He smiled at her, trying for distraction, and her mouth softened into a sympathetic upside-down smile.

"Another nightmare, huh?" She came further into the kitchen and squeezed his arm. "Do you want some cocoa?"

"No, I'm fine. Really. Sorry I woke you." Neal glanced around the room, but there was no more sign of Mozzie.

Elizabeth was regarding him openly, assessing his state of being, and he gave her another smile. She rolled her eyes in response. "Okay, if you're sure. If Satch gives you any more trouble, just put him outside."

She squeezed his arm again, reached up and kissed his cheek, then left the room.

"Moz!" whispered Neal. "Moz?" But there was no reply, and after a few moments, he gave up and went back to bed. Either it had been a hallucination or a dream, or ghosts could phase in and out of existence at will. Whichever it was, there wasn't much Neal could do about it.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, halfway across Brooklyn Bridge on their way to work, Neal was watching the traffic flowing around them when he heard muttering from the backseat. He looked back to see Mozzie sitting behind him, drinking from a juice box and flicking through the files on top of Peter's briefcase.

"Uh." Neal faced forward again, blinking rapidly. When they'd cleared the bridge, he took another peek.

"Hey," said Mozzie.

"Hey." Neal wasn't sure how he was supposed to feel about being haunted; it was simultaneously unsettling and comforting. He forced himself to act cool. "You're back."

"I told you I'd be back," said Mozzie, closing the file and putting it back.

Peter looked at Neal, eyebrows raised. "Neal, who are you talking to?"

There was no easy answer to that. Neal weighed his options, then figured what the hell. The worst Peter would do was take him to have his head examined, and that might not be such a bad thing, under the circumstances. "Peter, is there anything unusual about the back seat of your car?"

Peter glanced in the rear view mirror, then back to Neal. "You tell me." He didn't looked freaked out, and he hadn't crashed the car, so Neal figured he couldn't see Mozzie, who—yeah, was still there.

"Besides," said Mozzie, "I didn't finish telling you about the key."

"I know, and I want to hear it," Neal told him. "Just give me a second, okay?"

"Neal?" Peter sounded terse, which meant he was worried. He probably thought Neal was finally cracking, after the strain of the last few weeks and the broken nights' sleep.

Neal had to reassure him, and the only way to do that was to tell the truth; Peter would see right through a misdirect. Neal took a deep breath. "Remember when we said 'no more secrets'?"

"Yeah." Peter sounded wary, but willing to listen.

Neal blurted out the events of the night before. By the time he'd finished, Peter had parked in the FBI garage and was staring at him, openly suspicious.

"Come on, Peter," said Neal. "Why would I make this up? Mozzie's here, he's haunting me, and he has information about the music box."

Peter's forehead creased. "That's great, except for one thing: there's no such thing as ghosts."

"Says you." Neal felt an answering frown form, like a gathering storm cloud. "And God forbid you could be wrong about anything." He was trying not to sulk, but it was always frustrating when Peter refused to trust him, even if it was a stretch. They'd been through so much together. Neal was pretty sure he'd earned the benefit of the doubt by now, the Fowler incident notwithstanding.

"I could have told you he wouldn't believe you," said Mozzie. "He's a Suit. You keep forgetting that."

"Just zip it," said Neal, impatiently.

"I didn't—" Peter broke off and twisted around to look in the back seat. Then he straightened and sighed. "Okay, say for the sake of argument I believe you. What's the punch line? What kind of information are we talking?"

"Well, he did break the code before Larssen shot him, and he does have perfect recall," Neal pointed out.

Peter sighed again, sounding long-suffering and resigned. "Okay, fine. But I'm not taking this into the office. I don't need any notations in my file about communing with the dead, and neither do you. It stays off the record, and we go somewhere private."

"As if I want to venture into that den of snakes," said Mozzie.

Neal was too busy gazing dumbstruck at Peter to reply. "You believe me?" he managed at last. "Seriously?"

Peter leaned back in his seat, his coat rustling, and met Neal's eye. He looked serious. And concerned. And there was a wry slant to his mouth. "Let's say I'm willing to entertain the possibility. As a working theory."

"That's—" Neal felt warm, less alone than he had in weeks. He suppressed the urge to lean across and plant one on him. "Thanks, Peter."

In the back seat, Mozzie slurped the last of the drink out of his juice box. "Are you done now? Can we go to the Park?"

"Yeah, Moz," said Neal. "We can go to the Park."


End file.
